


I'm Sorry (For Everything I Never Did)

by orphan_account



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Suicide mention, mild sex references, yes francis is my fave yes i hurt him a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 15:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 'That was Francis’ fatal flaw – his fundamental spinelessness. He’d ignored Julian’s lessons, the call to do something, anything, as long as it was noble, impressive, meaningful. Actions made life poetry. Because Francis was simply lacking in the ability to do this – he floated through life, going along with the whims and wants of others; parasitically taking what he could get but never daring to break out of his comfort zone and demand what he felt he deserved.'Francis' thoughts before his attempted suicide.





	I'm Sorry (For Everything I Never Did)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fervor I think Francis possessed me

_Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not._

He was awful, really. Though on the outside Francis appeared to be the innocent of the group (he didn’t push Bunny off the ledge, never suggested his murder, didn’t even go down the bleak, charcoal ravine to check the corpse) he himself knew that out of everybody, he was the true monster.

All the others (except Richard, but he’ll get to him later) had been thoroughly caught up in the deed, so much so that Francis was convinced it could never have seemed real to them – instead, they had viewed it as some grand gesture, a symbolic instead of tangible sin, straight out of a Greek myth. Henry was especially convinced of this, and his unwavering belief in the fact that this murder was some sort of noble, necessary act was infectious – Camilla and Charles had both fallen for the romantic vision in favour of the terrible, evil reality in seconds. Rose-tinted glasses can make any sin poetic.

Francis himself had never fallen for this. All his life, he’d been an outsider of sorts and, despite appearances, this hadn’t changed even when he joined that cursed classics class (though this was entirely his own fault). The twins, Bunny, hell, even Henry -they had all been, in their own ways, utterly charming. Richard, arguably, wasn’t – but his unwavering ability to fall into step with the rest of them, chameleon-like, made him perhaps the most convincing insider.

The twins had been so beautiful, angelic visions in white – yet at the same time were enigmas; even the dark, incestuous rumours that constantly swirled around them acted somehow in their favour. When either of them walked into a room, all eyes fell on them; everybody around them envious of their looks, confused about their dynamic. Although they may not have realised, they were both wholly enchanting. (God, even thinking of Charles now made his heart ache – despite all the evils he’d committed, Dorianesque he appeared ever the more pure for them).

Henry, though less obvious, was still hypnotising – his presence was undeniable; the simple act of walking across the commons attracted all sort of awed stares. He behaved with such surety, giving an entirely convincing impression of genius (which, even now, despite all his mistakes, Francis struggles to question). Even towards the end, his growing malignance gave him even more authority – his darkness made him like the night; crushing, choking, yet somehow still beautiful.

He finds it difficult, even after all these months, to think of Bunny – the real Bunny, that is. Francis knows it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead and all that, but he was terrible towards the end; unnecessarily cruel, manipulative, you could even consider him evil (ironic considering that he was the technical victim of all this). Though the fake version of Bunny is safe to think of, to mourn. The impression Bunny gave to those who didn’t know him perhaps made him the most charismatic of the entire group. When people at the college thought of him, they recalled his booming laugh, infectious smile, the endearing way which he walked – hands stuffed into pockets, entire body tilted forward, building up such momentum while at the same time looking as if he could tip over at any point. It’s impossible to think of this version of the boy without smiling, teary-eyed at the loss of him.

Francis, however. Sharp, angular, never quite at ease. Callous, insulting, affecting superiority as a defence mechanism (the fact that his superiority complex was not at all convincing further detracted from any form of charm). The way he dressed made him stand out, sure – but not in any way that was positive. He appeared an awkward vampire of sorts; he seemed to suck the life out of all those he was with, all smiles disappearing with a swish of his pretentiously long black coat. The sort of person who could never belong.

A further curse, of course, was his sexuality. As if his charmless, stuttering personality weren’t enough, his annoying habit of saying awful things to people then bombarding them with not-at-all-genuine apologies not quite a fatal enough flaw; he had to be even more odd. Though on the outside Francis seemed shameless, despite not ever outwardly saying ‘yes, I’m gay’, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed of it.

He felt this perhaps in the most pronounced way the just after sleeping with Charles for the second time. They were both still terribly drunk. Francis was lying in bed, naked, sweat-sheened limbs tangled in the sheets. Charles was stood at the opposite side of the room, stumbling a little as he pulled up his trousers. Thinking back, Francis has no idea what possessed him to do what he did next. This was before they killed the farmer, before everything fell apart, but Francis thinks of it as the worst moment of his life. He’d (with a lot of effort; he was still massively intoxicated) pulled himself upright, propped against the headboard, and slurred ‘Charles. I love you; you know.’

Charles had turned and looked at him with a blank expression. His eyes just seconds ago misty and unfocussed were clear and cold. He appeared to be fully sober. What chilled Francis to the core was the fundamental lack of emotion in his eyes, his mouth, everything in his body language. In that moment, he’d looked at (no, through) Francis like he was absolutely nothing. And Francis realised that he genuinely was nothing to Charles in these moments – just a thing to be used as a substitute, an object as impersonable and unlovable as an old sock. After a few seconds of piercingly staring through him like this, Charles turned and walked out of the room without another word.

Francis vowed to himself after that never to go to Charles again, to ignore his drunken entreaties and to silence his own. His resolve held out convincingly until the next night, a few weeks later, when Charles had turned up at his doorstep, breath soured by excess whiskey, smile so sweet it almost dripped with honey. As he opened the door and reached out to pull Charles in, he thought _he’s going to destroy me, and I’m going to let him._

That was Francis’ fatal flaw – his fundamental spinelessness. He’d ignored Julian’s lessons, the call to do something, _anything_, as long as it was noble, impressive, meaningful. Actions made life poetry. Because Francis was simply lacking in the ability to do this – he floated through life, going along with the whims and wants of others; parasitically taking what he could get but never daring to break out of his comfort zone and demand what he felt he deserved.

In a way, Henry was all he wished to be; the man being in possession of such strength of character, such rigidity. Henry was the mover, the one who made them try to do all those stupid rituals, the one who killed the farmer, the one who killed himself when it all fell apart, saving everybody. The others, though less forceful, still had an active part in the group, still made themselves useful (and therefore committed). Camilla had checked the corpse with Henry, Charles had handled the police. What had Francis done? Complained when they had to go on the searches, retreated to his country house in the most dangerous moments, both pre and post-Bunny. In short, he was nothing but a nuisance.

Even Richard had more of a part in everything than him. Poor, innocent Richard, who had chosen to protect them despite it being of absolutely no benefit to himself. He’d sounded the alarm, gone on searches without a word of complaint, driven Francis to the hospital that night he thought he was dying. He’d even let Francis kiss him that awful night after Bunny had died (no, was murdered). Francis decided, then, to write to Richard telling him what he’d done. An explanation was the least he deserved, after everything. Francis managed a half-smile when he realised that out of all of them, Richard, arguably the one deserving of the best life, had got it – a quiet existence out in California with Sophie Dearbold. Maybe, he thought, he would be happy.

Hell, even Bunny had been better than Francis. Despite his cruelty to them all towards the end, he’d at least taken action in telling Richard and Julian what had happened. He may not have realised, but he was risking his own arrest, his own freedom – unconsciously sacrificing it so the truth, at least, could be free.

Francis, however. He’d done nothing. He couldn’t even say it was because he hadn’t wanted to hurt Bunny – he wanted him dead as much, perhaps more, than most of them. He’d never been as close to him as Henry, and had always silently resented his remarks about gay people which, although meant to be subtle digs, had cut Francis to the bone. Though he had refused to admit this to himself before, Francis had felt a chilling, amoral joy when Bunny tipped (arms swinging, hands desperately clutching at nothing) over the edge of the ravine. It felt to him like a retribution of sorts for all the casual cruelties he’d been subjected to. Even that night, after Charles had left him alone in bed, (he never stayed any longer than was necessary) the panic attack Francis had wasn’t due to even a speck of remorse – instead, it was entirely selfish; brought on by a terrifying dream of Bunny’s corpse crawling up the ravine and appearing outside of his window, the blue of police cars and ambulances making his gruesome, pallid form unbearably pronounced.

Thinking back on that nightmare, Francis fully understood that it wasn’t Bunny, was never Bunny, who was the monster. Nor was it Henry, Camilla, Charles, Richard. They were flawed too, he knew that – but none of them were too bad, really. It was him. His evil was banal, which made it even worse. He became even more convinced now that he had to do something, had to repent in some way (he smiled: Bunny would have hated him for thinking like a Catholic). It was with a calm that he hadn’t felt since those days out in the country before the unfortunate incident with the farmer that Francis turned on the taps of his marble bath, ensuring the water was hot enough. Trancelike, he wandered in his nightgown to his room, carefully removing the razor from underneath the piles of clothes which had served as its hiding place, moving it into his pocket (if his Mother had ever seen it, he would’ve known – he’d have been shipped out to some thousand-dollar-per-night recluse in seconds). He sat and wrote the letter to Richard, called the maid and asked her to post it for him.

Then he walked back to the bathroom; with a deep inhalation of breath, he opened the door and stepped into the steam.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always a slut for feedback


End file.
